For The Fallen
by yaoi kitsune
Summary: 10 drabbles based off prompts found on kamerreon's yahoo prompts page. Angst, humour and bittersweet hope contained within. Read at own risk.


**For The Fallen**

_AN. This is a set of drabbles created from the following ten prompts found on Kamerreon's yahoo webpage. Hope you enjoy them._

_Disclaimer - Harry Potter and co. belong to the masterful mind of JKRowling. I am merely playing with them for my pleasure and at the end all characters will be dusted off and sent back to their rightful creator. The Ode 'For the Fallen' belongs to Laurence Binyon...my mind is not capable of creating such beautiful work._

_**Old-fashioned**_

Sitting in the lounge-room the clock struck midnight. Looking around the room thrown into relief by the low-banked fire green eye's rested on various objects. On the mantle above the fireplace an old wand encased in glass. In the corner a three-legged table that had seen better days. On the wall a family portrait containing the visage of a regal couple and their striking dark-haired sons. And clutched in his hand an old-fashioned cloak large enough for a small child; all that remained of better days before the war tore everything apart, before families turned on each other and before a figure fell through a veil never to grace the halls with his laughter again.

_**Tea**_

Sitting in the office clutching a now luke-warm cup of lemon tea the boy continued to pour out his torment in a voice cracked by screams. Broken memories of shattered innocence; of manic laughter, green light and the sound of rushing wings that sent a soul from the world long before its proper time.

_**Stereotype**_

Know-it-all Mudblood, Bigoted Pureblood, Saviour, Martyr...each of them had a stereotype, a role the world expected them to play. And play them they would. Until the day came when they could throw off their masks and be free to find their own places in life and create their own images they wanted to wear.

_**Gray**_

He knew of people who liked to hide the signs of age. Of hair dyed to its former glory and wrinkles hidden with magic creams, but for him each new strand of gray in his raven black hair was to be celebrated. For each new streak symbolised another day he never thought he would get. Each hair was earned through trials and hard work. And many of the hairs acted as reminders of his family, of his children and their mischievous shenanigans that gave him both heart-attacks and joy. It also helped that his partner believed they made him look distinguished. 'Yes', he thought as he saw another new strand in the mirror 'gray is definitely my new favourite colour'.

_**Ego**_

He strutted into the bedroom modelling his newest robe. Shoulders back and head held high, the morning sunlight from the window shinning off his white blond hair. And if the dark-haired male in the bed attempted to hide an amused smile behind his hand the blond pretended not to notice for he knew these robes highlighted his complexion and showcased his posterior to the fullest extent. Just as he knew that when the male in the bed discovered the easy access combined with the lack of undergarments he would no-longer be smiling. 'Oh no', Draco mused with smugness as he eyed his green-eyed partner, 'he won't be laughing then'. And maybe some would call Draco's assumption ego. But really he knew ego had nothing to do with it. It was pure fact.

_**Feather**_

In the midst of screams of despair and painful death he clung to the memories of better days. When flying was freedom, magic was beautiful and a feather floating in the air could bring irrepressible joy to a child. These were the memories he treasured as he charged into battle, wand at the ready and robes soaked in the blood of the fallen.

_**Silent screams**_

Local villagers whispered about the field in the distance covered with overgrown grass and dotted with wildflowers. They told of lingering shades from days past. Of children fighting a war meant for adults, of the blood of innocents and guilty alike soaking into the earth. And they claimed at night you could hear them, the silent screams of the fallen who could never find peace, but were instead bound to this mortal plane so that the future would never forget the follies of the past and the costs that war could bring.

_**Aura**_

From his position at the window the old man could once again make out the glow coming from the schools memorial to the students lost in the final battle that had been appearing for the last seven nights. Leaving his post he hastily made his way through the passageways in the hopes that this night he would reach the memorial before the glow disappeared. Leaving the entrance doors he made his way down the stairs to the grounds where he could see the glow beginning to form a figure. As he got closer he could make out a slender body belonging to a teen not yet reached adulthood. Stopping a metre from the spectre he took in the messy windswept hair and the student robes. The figure turned, revealing a pale face with emerald-green eyes hidden behind round spectacles and an innocent smile that was rarely seen in life. The figure stood and watched the old man with an understanding gaze before whispering the four words his old soul had desperately needed but given up hope of ever hearing "I forgive you Albus". And as the man fell to his knees before the memorial the aura surrounding the figure flared in brilliance before fading away, taking with it both the teen and the old mans guilt.

_**Mirror**_

Sitting on the floor before its frame his eyes continued to devour the images contained within. Images of a family never known but forever loved. Of eyes as green as the new spring grass and hair a wild as a windswept day. And as he sat entranced in the scene a thought flittered across his mind _'a mirror was the closest he had ever come to feeling love'_

_**Ode**_

_They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:_

_Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn._

_At the going down of the sun and in the morning,_

_We will remember them._

As the ode came to a close she remembered him. Remembered his daring and courage, his joy as he soared through the sky. She also remembered his loneliness. She remembered a small boy in hand-me-down clothes three times his size with broken glasses who befriended her when no-one else would and who in the end died to save a world that would only see a hero. And as the surrounding crowd cried at the loss of their saviour she smiled up at the sky and believed that he had not fallen, but instead risen to new heights to once again be with his family. She smiled in the belief that he would be waiting for her up there and when the time was right they would meet again. After all, what was death but the beginning of the next great adventure.


End file.
